


whisper-thin

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Attempt at Humor, Deputy Derek Hale, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Necromancy, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Slow Burn, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 21:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10999503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: Stilinski looks at him sharply, apparently surprised, and then says, “Thanks. Thoughtful of you, considering you looked like you were contemplating murder a few seconds ago. My slow, gruesome murder, specifically.”Derek shrugs. “I just don’t fancy scraping your unconscious body off of my floor. I just cleaned it.”Stilinski raises an eyebrow. “And they say chivalry is dead.”





	whisper-thin

**Author's Note:**

> Title from, “I was born on the night of Samhain, when the barrier between the worlds is whisper-thin and when magic, old magic, sings its heady and sweet song to anyone who cares to hear it.”   
> ― Carolyn MacCullough, Once a Witch.

At three o’clock in the morning, on an ordinary Wednesday, there’s an insistent, repetitive knock on the front door. Derek blinks at the ceiling, eyes blurred with sleep as his mind rolls over all the reasons why someone might be waking him up at this time. None of them are particularly positive. Then again, it’s also possible that the youths from the floor above him have decided to play a little game of knock-knock-run during their drunken stumble home from the dark, destitute park just down the road.

He glances at the darkened window and then pushes back the covers with a groan, tumbling out of bed with a surprising amount of grace, considering the time. The knocking stops, and for a blissful second Derek entertains the thought of being allowed to go back to sleep – he has work tomorrow, _today_ , in fact – but then it starts up again, loud and forceful enough to shake the foundations of his flat. It’s an old building (although Derek’s presence in it is new) so Derek is a little concerned that it might just give in and collapse around him if the offending person doesn’t lay off soon.

He slips on socks and then strides out into the hallway, wincing as the cold from the wooden floorboards seeps into his toes regardless. He wriggles his feet around and then glares at the front door, which is vibrating with each hit.

“What?” Derek demands, yanking the door open fiercely. Cold air sweeps into the room, and Derek is met with the sight of the corridor, which is usually clean but looks dingy in the dark – and a shadowy figure with its’ arms outstretched, inches away from Derek’s face. Instinctively, Derek snatches the hands down out of the air and snarls, his fangs lengthening to a deadly point.

“Ow, _ow_ , fuck, dude,” yelps the figure. “Hands off the merchandise. _Release_.”

Derek’s hand spasms suddenly as magic snaps from the strangers’ hand into his, pain flaring in the joints of his knuckles and wrists. He lets go immediately – it’s not as if he’s got much of a choice, here. He snarls again, in frustration this time, because he recognises that voice.

“How many times do I have to tell you to keep your magic away from me?” Derek snaps.

Stilinski frowns at him, rubbing his own hands as if _he_ was the one who was zapped, not Derek. “Taking into account that I’ve only known you for about a week, and that you seem to hate all Witches, I’m gonna go with ‘too many times’. Am I right? Do I get a prize?”

Derek slams the door in Stilinski’s face.

There’s a distinct pause, and then, slightly muffled, “That’s a bit of a shit prize, man, if I’m being honest. And I like to think I’m always honest, at least when it comes to werewolves, anyway. Like, ninety-six percent of the time, at least. Not much point in lying to you guys, is there? Tell you what though, it doesn’t make having a werewolf as your best friend any easier. Scott can _totally_ tell when I’ve eaten the last bit of pizza.”

Derek gently places his forehead against the door and sighs.

Stilinski is partly right; ‘too many times’ is an accurate summary of their interactions. Derek has only known him for about a week, when he moved back to Beacon Hills, his home town, from New York, and into this strange little block of flats, and already the other boy has used too many spells on him. Never maliciously, which is a point in his favour, but always casually, and always in Derek’s face. There was _Zoom,_ to steal Derek’s coffee cup and determine whether or not Derek takes sugar and milk or drinks it black – some kind of bet at the police station with Reyes was involved, a bet that Derek prefers to ignore – and then there was _Fold_ , which saw Derek’s crisp, neatly ironed uniform jacket being folded over and over and over again, shrinking until it was no bigger than a pin-head, in the end.

Stilinski had insisted that it wasn’t supposed to do that, but he had been laughing so hard that Derek hadn’t believed him.

So Stilinski is partly right but, he’s also partly wrong; Derek doesn’t hate Witches. He knows some brilliant Witches, and some sub-par ones, and some that are perfectly happy to pour coffee for him without magic when he wanders into the local diner, sour-faced and tired.

Derek doesn’t have a problem with Witches. He has a problem with _magic_ , more specifically magic that is directed at him. It itches at him, sinks under his skin and agitates his wolf. He feels like a dick for it, but he can’t help it.

“Okay, so you don’t care about the pizza, that’s cool man,” Stilinski continues, voice still muffled by the door that separates them. “But, like, believe it or not, pizza is not the reason for my presence here. I – uh, I actually had a legitimate reason for coming here. Like, I wouldn’t have picked this time if I could help it, but when I get itchy fingers, it usually means something bad is about to go down. And let me tell you, these are some seriously itchy fingers. For purely magical reasons, of course. I don’t have some kind of magical finger STD, if that’s even a thing. Is that a thing?”

Derek sighs explosively, runs a hand down his face, and then opens the door slowly. Werewolves tend to run hot, but the blast of cold night air is still unwelcome, and he folds his arms over his thin t-shirt and stares at Stilinski, waiting for an explanation that doesn’t involve sexually transmitted diseases of the hand.

“Derek. Hi. Cool. So, are you gonna let me in?” Stilinski asks hopefully, hitching his bag a little higher over his shoulder. He’s almost as tall as Derek, despite the fact that Derek is five years older than him. His hair looks like ebony in the dark, but Derek knows that it’s actually the colour of chocolate, and probably just as silky-smooth. _Whiskey eyes_ , Derek thinks, apropos of nothing, and then he sighs and steps away from the door before that train of thought can chug any further along. Stilinski grins and sidles past him, knocking into Derek’s hat-stand with his bag and just barely catching it before the thing falls over. He stops in the hallway and whistles lowly, casting an appreciative glance at the open-plan living room and the adjoining kitchen, both of which are doused in moonlight from the big glass windows.

“Nice place,” Stilinski says, nodding.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “You live on this floor. I’m pretty sure the layout’s the same.”

Stilinski shrugs and glances at the pictures on Derek’s wall – some of Laura, with her front two teeth missing and a sparkling hula-hoop around her waist, some of Cora and their Dad, sitting and reading and playing board games, and some of their mother, apron in place as she laughingly arranges lattice over a homemade pie – and taps his fingers against the gleaming white walls. Then he seems to think better of it and stuffs his fingers in the pockets of his hoodie, tapping his feet instead.

“Oh,” Stilinski says, mouth dropping open. “Do you want me to take my shoes off? I totally can, dude, no problem.”

Derek raises his eyes to the sky and shuts the front door. “Or you could tell me why you’re here, and then you could go about the business of _not_ being here.”

“It’s spectacular to see you too,” Stilinski drawls, eyebrow arched, and then he fidgets, his eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree. “You’ve got a study, haven’t you? Next to your bedroom, big thing, with a bunch of bookcases and one of those old globe things, right? The ones that spin?”

Derek blinks at him. “You’ve never been in here before. How did you know that?”

“I’ve seen it,” Stilinski says grinning. “I was here earlier.”

“No, you weren’t,” Derek argues warily. “I’ve been here all day, and even if I had been out, I would have caught your scent once I got back. I’d recognise it anywhere.”

Stilinski smells like oranges and chalk and lavender. There’s something so unique about it that it always takes Derek by surprise, and he ends up with the scent stuck in his brain for hours after Stilinski has gone.

Stilinski looks at him curiously for a moment, and then winks. “Calling me memorable?”

“Well, you’re certainly not forgettable,” Derek says, sighing exasperatedly. “Believe me when I say that I’ve tried, okay?”

Stilinski snorts. “You’re not the first person to tell me that. Anyway, I _was_ here earlier, just not in a physical sense. That’s why you couldn’t tell. You have to have a body to have a scent. At least, I’m _pretty_ sure that’s how it works, but I haven’t really got a grip on it, yet. I’m still coming into my powers. Which you already knew, because of the whole accidentally-shrinking-your-uniform thing the other day.”

Derek glares at him frostily, and Stilinski backtracks immediately, eyes widening. “But we’re not talking about that! And that’s not why I’m here.”

Derek sighs and rubs at his temple. His body is aching to sleep – it’s been a long week at work, and he’d pushed himself on his workout yesterday, and now every inch of him is screaming for him to rest, to just leave Stilinski in the hallway and head to bed. Part of him is genuinely tempted to do it, as well; Stilinski is the Sheriff’s son, and Derek has a lot of respect for the Sheriff, as both a person and a boss. He expects that he’s equally good a parent as he is a cop. Derek has enough trust left in him to let Stilinski do his thing and then leave without breaking anything.

On the other hand, the animal part of him refuses to leave the house unguarded. Plus, if there really is something mysterious in his study, then Derek wants to know how the fuck it got there and what it is, so that he can stop it from happening again.

(Anyway, it’s rude to leave a guest unattended, even if it is an unwelcome guest. An unwelcome guest that’s arrived at _three_ _o’clock_ in the _morning_.)

“I’ll get the key for the study,” Derek says, giving in, and then he pads into the kitchen. The keys are on a hook in the kitchen and Derek pockets them and then makes a detour to the fridge, where he snags a bottle of cold water. When he hands both items to Stilinski in the moonlit hallway, the boy stares at him with a puzzled expression.

“I didn’t know if you were doing something magical,” Derek says, huffing at having to explain himself. “All the books say that you need to be well-hydrated after spells, if you don’t want to pass out.”

Stilinski looks at him sharply, apparently surprised, and then says, “Thanks. Thoughtful of you, considering you looked like you were contemplating murder a few seconds ago. My slow, gruesome murder, specifically.”

Derek shrugs. “I just don’t fancy scraping your unconscious body off of my floor. I just cleaned it.”

Stilinski raises an eyebrow. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

The study is a little windowless room, but Derek flicks the switch as they enter, bathing the room in yellow light. There are bookcases blanketing every inch of spare wall, and Derek is sort of amazingly proud of his collection, but Stilinski barely even blinks. He bypasses the books and goes straight for the little globe on Derek’s desk, the one with the gold sheen and the old Latin words scrawled all over it. Derek winces – the manuscript for his latest novel is sitting on the desk, in plain view, but Stilinski doesn’t seem to be looking at it. He’s too preoccupied with the globe.

Derek spots something then, and he snarls, low in his throat. Stilinski whips around at the noise and sucks in a breath, presumably at the expression on Derek’s face.

“That window wasn’t there before,” Derek says, feeling his hackles rise. He crouches down, following the urge to stick low to the ground. When it comes to matters of security and safety, Derek listens to his wolf. Instincts are _always_ right.

Stilinski watches him for a moment, head cocked to the side in a strangely bird-like manner. His eyes flicker all over Derek’s body, like there are words written on his skin in an unknown language, and Stilinski wants to be the one to read them, understand them. It makes the hair on the back of Derek’s neck stand up, and he returns the gaze coolly. He feels a lot more awake now, buzzing with energy. Eventually, Stilinski shifts his gaze to the window.

“It was never there?” Stilinski asks, brow furrowed thoughtfully. “That’s odd. Expected, but odd. I didn’t see it when I was here earlier, which is especially strange, since you’d think they would have added the window to get _in_. Oh, oh! Unless something was already in here, and someone on the outside needed a way for it to get _out_.”

He’s talking to himself, not Derek, but Derek doesn’t care. He’s actually used to it – Sheriff Stilinski does the same thing, muttering under his breath as examines a crime scene, working his way through the details of a case. “Who added the window? How do you just add a window to someone’s study in a matter of hours? And _how_ were you here earlier?”

“Astral projection,” Stilinski says absently, gliding his fingers over the surface of the globe. “I’ve only just learnt how to do it. Did you know that it’s a genetic ability? Not all witches can do it. It has to be in the family and it’s not like spell-work, or dream-walking, so you can’t just sit down one day and decide to learn how to do it. I knew my mother could astral project, but I wasn’t sure that the genes would be passed down. Something to do with pregnancy conditions, I don’t know, I haven’t got that far into the research yet.”

Derek just stares at him. It should be impossible for one person to talk so much, and yet, Stilinski stands there, words practically jumping out of his mouth.

“So you astral projected here, and saw what?” Derek asks, trying to steer the conversation back on track. He has a fairly good idea of what astral projection is – an out of body experience, as far as he can tell, wherein the astral body separates itself from the physical body and travels around outside of it – but he’s not sure of why it applies here. Or why Stilinski apparently decided to visit his study during an episode.

“ _Accidentally_ astral projected here,” Stilinski emphasises. “Don’t get all excited, I was aiming for the Station to check on Dad – I know he’s eating donuts at work, I _just know_ it, and now I just have to catch him in the act. Anyway, I missed by a mile and ended up here instead. Apparently you’ve gotta really focus on your destination and not get distracted, or you’ll go wherever your mind takes you.” His voice trails off then, almost as if he’s said too much, but then he makes a small noise of triumph and taps his finger against the surface of the globe.

Derek holds back a laugh. Despite only being briefly acquainted with Stilinski, it’s easy to see that distraction is the boy’s middle name. Derek has a feeling that astral projection is going to take a while to get right. He doesn’t laugh, though, because he’s pretty sure that most of that comes from Stilinski’s ADHD, and Derek is an ass, but he’s not _that_ much of an ass. There are some things that you just don’t laugh about, unless you know you’re allowed to. Instead, he clears his throat and asks, “You found something?”

“When I was here, the globe was spinning on its’ own,” Stilinski says, mimicking the motion with his index finger. “It’s possible that there was already something in the globe, and someone activated it magically from outside. Nobody’s been in here, or you would have caught the scent.”

“Unless they astral projected,” Derek says wryly. He frowns. “Laura gave me that globe last year, from a Spirit Market in New York. She said it would match my scholarly old man vibe.”

Stilinski snorts a laugh and side-eyes Derek. “You need a beard to complete the image. And maybe a newspaper.”

Derek rubs his stubble and hopes to God that Stilinski doesn’t notice the pile of folded newspapers on his coffee table, puzzle pages either completed or scribbled all over in a murderous rage.

“A Spirit Market would do it, though,” Stilinski says. “Some of those sellers are dodgy as fuck, man.”

Stilinski rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, dumps his bag behind him – it clangs suspiciously – and then holds both hands out in front of him, palms facing the globe. Derek stands up swiftly, opens his mouth to protest, but Stilinski is already smiling and saying, “I’ll put it right back afterwards, I promise. _Break_.”

Sixteen floorboards _rocket_ upwards and crash into the ceiling. Splinters rain down on Stilinski, who stands there dumbly, hands still out in front of him. The globe reduced to tiny little pieces. A bit of wood hits Stilinski on the shoulder and stays there. Derek gapes at the mess and the sizeable hole in his study floor, and then sinks back down to the floor, groaning.

It’s much too early for this.

“Ah,” Stilinski says slowly. “Well. Well, that’s always a risk. But on the bright side, I’ve found the bones.”

Derek whips his head up. “ _Bones?_ ”

It turns out that Witches can sense the presence of other Witches no matter what form they’re in – Stilinski’s astral body could sense the remains of another Witch’s body in the globe and had been drawn to it. Derek isn’t sure if he should be weirdly comforted by this or just extremely weirded out. He settles on ‘tired’, instead of thinking too hard about it.

“You might have a Necromancer on your hands,” Stilinski says, as he steps out of Derek’s door, tucking the velvet bag full of bones into his rucksack. He sounds unreasonably excited by the idea, and he keeps glancing at the bag, like he’s itching to get home and study the bones.

“Fantastic,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. He’s exhausted, but he doubts that he’s going to get any sleep tonight. For one thing, there’s still a large chunk of his floor missing (Derek refused to let Stilinski perform another spell under his roof), and for another, someone managed to activate bones in his house without him sensing anything. _Real,_ human bones.

“They shouldn’t be a problem for you, though,” Stilinski says dismissively, waving the bag of bones around. Derek dodges to avoid getting hit by a skeleton in a sack, and Stilinski looks briefly sheepish, before shrugging. “Necromancers usually only want bones that have been dead for a while, and you happen to be very much alive. Plus, you’re a werewolf. You could literally bite his face off and he wouldn’t be able to do anything, unless he’s a steroid-infused bodybuilder with an adamantium skeleton, and even then, you’re more James Howlett than this guy will probably ever be.”

Derek wishes he didn’t know what Stilinski is on about, but unfortunately, he went through an embarrassing comic-book phase when he was in his pre-teens (it’s possible that the phase never exactly went away, but Derek goes to great lengths to hide that fact).

“Also, if I were to guess,” Stilinski continues, “I’d say that it’s a young Necromancer. Probably a kid, judging by the very obvious magical window thing. Not exactly subtle. Either he’s doing an apprenticeship on the down-low or it’s a dare. I’d go with the latter. But, again, you’re a werewolf, so. It’s not like you can’t bite him to death if he comes back.”

“Thank you for getting rid of the bones, Stilinski,” Derek says exasperatedly, moving to shut the door. “Please, never try and help me again.”

Stilinski gasps a little. “I feel like Dobby, but that would make you Harry Potter, and not even you can pull off that level of cool.”

Derek shuts the door, sighing, but Stilinski’s foot blocks his way.

“Stiles,” he says, when Derek looks up. Stilinski grins a little awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck. “You can call me Stiles.”

Derek looks at him, and nods slowly.

“Since, you know, I ruined your floor and everything,” Stilinski adds, and Derek really does shut the door this time, _hard_.

 *

The preserve is a beautiful place to relax. It’s private property, which means that there’s always a ghostly sort of quiet about the place. Kids don’t wander through it like they do at the park, so Derek can jog peacefully without worrying about whether or not he’s going to get run over by some punk on a bike wearing a backwards cap.

He’s just fiddling with his iPod when he hears a noise to the left of the rough path that runs through the middle of the Preserve. Cautiously, Derek removes one earbud and slows to a stop, momentarily shocked by the silence that greets him as The Eurhythmics fades into the background. He sees a bike lying on its side, weeds poking up through the spokes of the wheel, and then he sees a boy in a plaid shirt, backwards cap in place. He’s leaning over a tree trunk and moving his arms strangely.

Derek sighs. Graffiti. Technically, Derek isn’t on duty, but most of the people in town know who he is, either from when he was young or when the Sheriff gave a short speech at the school about road safety and introduced Derek as the new deputy. The news had spread quickly, as news tends to do in small towns. He pulls out his other earbud and strides forward, clearing his throat to make himself known.

The boy whips around, arms flailing out to the side, and Derek almost groans. He considers making a break for it.

“Derek!” Stilinski shouts cheerfully. “Come and bleed on this tree for me.”

Derek doesn’t get a chance to answer; Stilinski rushes forward to grab his arm and pull him towards the tree. He’s babbling a mile a minute, but for some reason, all Derek can think about is the heat of his hand against Derek’s arm, the way his long fingers wrap around his wrist so securely. He clears his throat again and banishes the thoughts to the back of his mind, where hopefully they’ll stay.

“Are you vandalising the Preserve?” Derek asks sternly, interrupting Stilinksi in the middle of a speech about his latest adventure with Scott McCall, the werewolf that works at the local vet. “You know that this is private property, don’t you Stilinski? You’re technically trespassing.”

Stilinski scowls. “Sti- _iles_. Not Stilinski. Stilinski isn’t even my father, he goes by ‘Sheriff’, or ‘boss-man’, or ‘light of my life’, if I’ve irritated him.”

“So, all of the time then,” Derek says, letting Stiles pull him even closer to the tree. Stiles pauses for breath in order to glare at him, and Derek holds his free hand up in mock surrender. “You’re still trespassing, _Stiles_.”

Stiles looks positively gleeful at the use of his first name, and completely unbothered by Derek’s accusation, so Derek just sighs again and examines the tree trunk dubiously. He seems to sigh a lot around Stiles.

“Everyone knows that this place belongs to your family,” Stiles says, letting go of Derek’s wrist to dig around in his pockets. “I figured I’d just mention my best buddy Derek if I got caught and get a free pass. Plus, Sheriff’s kid.” He points to himself. “People seem to just assume that it’s safer not to ask. Except you, of course.”

“I am not your best buddy,” Derek says firmly. “And I didn’t know it was you over here. I thought it was just some kid vandalising a tree. And apparently I was right.”

Stiles holds the can of spray paint behind his back and tries for an innocent look. “What?”

Derek isn’t amused. “Please tell me you’re not spray-painting the trees. You’re twenty, not twelve.”

Stiles shoots him a curious look out of the corner of his eye, pulling the cap off of the can with his teeth. “You know how old I am? I never spray-painted anything, especially not at the tender age of twelve, I’ll have you know. I did break a bus stop seat once, but that was an accident, and it already had a crack in it. How do you know how old I am?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Everyone in town knows how old you are. You’re the Sheriff’s kid, as you so recently pointed out.”

Stiles doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop for now. Derek doesn’t know why it might be weird to know Stiles’ age, but Stiles seems to think that it might be odd. For some reason, that makes Derek nervous, and he rubs his hands on his shorts as Stiles fiddles with the nozzle on the can. It’s cooler now that he isn’t running. He wishes he had put on a sweater.

“Okay, so, this is how it’s going to go,” Stiles says, holding up the can with a very intense look in his eye. “I’m going to spray the wards onto this tree trunk, and then you’re going to bleed all over it, okay? That last bit is pretty important, so don’t forget.”

“You want me to bleed all over the tree,” Derek states blankly.

“Great, you’ve got it,” Stiles says cheerily. Then the intense look returns to his eyes and he faces the tree, biting his lip as he examines the trunk, gliding one hand over all the knots and lines. “Here’s good,” he decides eventually. “Ready?”

“Why exactly am I sacrificing myself to the Preserve?” Derek asks drily. Stiles makes an impatient noise.

“ _Wards_ , Derek, not sacrifice,” he says, rolling his eyes. “If I was going to sacrifice you, you’d know about it.”

“Harsh words from someone who considers me his best bud,” Derek says, crossing his arms over his chest in a show of mock-offense. Stiles shoots him a dry look.

“Hilarious,” he says. “Look, these are wards. The symbols I’m about to paint tell the nature of the ward, and what it can do. The blood, _your_ blood, will bind the wards to the forest and the town, since the forest belongs to you. Well, it belongs to the Hale’s, so that’s you. I was going to just use animal blood, since the forest belongs to the animals too, but this will be stronger. And then my magic is what actually makes it work. See? No sacrifice involved.”

“Just my blood,” Derek says, although it’s not that big of a deal. He’ll heal within seconds.

“Don’t be a baby,” Stiles says, although his mouth twitches into a reassuring smile. He grabs a hold of Derek’s hand, and before Derek can protest, he shouts, “ _Numb!_ ”

Derek’s entire arm goes numb. It flops down to his side, hanging there limply. Derek stares it, both unsurprised and horrified. No matter how much he tries to move it, it refuses to comply. Derek raises his head slowly and stares at Stiles, whose eyes are bulging out of his head.

“Ah,” Stiles mutters, his voice a few octaves higher than usual. “I probably shouldn’t have shouted.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, that was a bit more vigorous than I intended, but it, uh – it worked?”

Derek counts to ten, _slowly_. “Just slice me and get it over with.”

Something happens, as Stiles turns to face the tree.

Stiles is sort of beautiful to watch, when he’s doing real magic. Derek gets the feeling that Stiles doesn’t do a lot of serious magic – his spells tend to err on the side of practical and, sometimes, just entirely fucked up (see Derek’s arm, which currently resembles a noodle). But this is different. Derek knows what wards are, although as a werewolf, he’s never used them before. He’s never had the need to, and he wouldn’t be able to, although if Stiles gave him the pictures and symbols to draw, he could manage that. But the real art of ward-making is in the magic that binds them, and Stiles has that in spades, despite how little he uses it. _That’s_ what’s beautiful to watch.

Stiles sprays a small circle onto the tree trunk, directly in front of him. Then he draws several intersecting lines, all thin and long, overlapping each other to make a pattern that blurs together when Derek looks at it. He doesn’t know if it’s a side-effect of the magic that makes it impossible for him to see the pattern, or just the heat of the moment. He expects it’s the latter. He feels hot and then cold, and then there’s a rush of silence that sweeps over the entire Preserve, spilling leaves all over the floor and beckoning petals from wildflowers towards them with cold fingers. Derek smiles slightly as he watches light spill across Stiles’ cheek and illuminate the gold in his eyes. It’s the same kind of gold that Beta’s get when they turn, only this is all Stiles, no magic involved.

It’s beautiful. Stiles’ mouth softens into something small and proud, like he’s relaxed and comfortable in his skin, like he knows what he’s doing. Derek feels a little weird watching him, shivers running up and down his spine. The tree shines with bright blue light.

“Woah,” Derek says softly.

Stiles looks at him, grinning. “I need your hand,” he says, and Derek arches one eyebrow. Stiles looks down at his hand and makes a small noise, and then he picks it up with a sheepish expression. “Sorry, forgot you were all floppy.”

Derek arches the other eyebrow.

Stiles goes beet red and coughs to clear his throat. “In a purely arm-related sense. No other body parts involved in the making of this humiliating memory. Uh. Could you just lend me a claw before I need to conjure up a large portal to hell to fall through?”

Derek laughs loudly and pops a claw, sliding it along his hand. He avoids the meaty part of his palm and grimaces as blood drips down onto Stiles’ hand. Stiles shoots him a blinding grin, cheeks still red, and then smears Derek’s blood in the centre of the pattern. There’s another flash of blue, and then everything is gone. The silence, the light, the rushing feeling. The wind stops and Stiles drops his hands, looking satisfied with himself.

“ _Clean_ ,” he mutters, and Derek’s blood is erased from Stiles’ skin. Derek waits until his palm is healed before he wipes the blood away on his shorts, sighing in relief as the cut closes up, the edges knitting together seamlessly. When he looks up, Stiles is staring at his palm with a fascinated look in his eye.

“Now _that_ is awesome,” Stiles says loudly. “I’ve seen Scott heal before, but only papercuts and things. Can you heal everything? I’ve read all of the books, we both have, but werewolves are kind of scarce in Beacon. Some things you just want a real opinion on, you know?”

Derek risks a small smile. “Is that your way of asking for information?”

Stiles shifts on his feet. For all he’s an adult, with a pretty decent Conjuring Qualification and an Apprenticeship underway, he sure as hell _acts_ like a teenager, fidgeting and mumbling. If Derek looks hard, he can easily see how Stiles will fit into his skin one day. He might even grow into his long limbs. “Is it that obvious?”

Derek smirks, and then lifts his good arm in a wave. He jogs backwards for a bit and then shoves one earbud back in his ear, calling, “Come by the Hale House sometime. We’ve got a pretty good library, and a treasure-trove of werewolves. That should be enough to satiate your curiously for, oh, I don’t know, a week?”

Derek is halfway down the path before Stiles shouts, “Thanks for bleeding on my tree!”

*

“Hale? A word.”

The Sheriff ducks back into his office, leaving the door ajar. Derek shares a quick glance with Tara, the receptionist, and then sighs and places the manila folder back on the desk. He fiddles with a paperclip for a moment and then gets up, chewing on his lip. He hasn’t done anything wrong, he knows that, apart from almost instigating a pissing contest with a cat that was caught in the top branches of a tree. Derek isn’t a complete asshole, but he probably wouldn’t have stopped for the old woman if he had been given the option, since cats tend to get up in his face.

Unfortunately, being a Deputy means he doesn’t have the luxury of avoiding old women with trapped cats. At least the scratches healed pretty quickly.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Tara says comfortingly, with a reassuring smile.

Derek smiles back weakly. It’s not that John scares him, or that Derek doesn’t enjoy his company – they actually have a healthy amount of respect for each other, and John is the best boss that Derek’s had before – it’s just that, Derek likes his job. Derek really, really likes his job, even the boring parts that nobody else enjoys doing. He likes the patrols, and the paperwork, and he likes the house-calls. He interviewed for it over Skype before he left New York, and he suspects that if he hadn’t gotten it, he would have turned tail and run back to the busy city where nobody cared if he was successful.

And Derek’s life doesn’t suck, exactly, but his job is one of the big selling points, and he can’t lose it. He just can’t.

John nods at him as Derek opens the door, expression carefully blank.

“Sir?” Derek asks, shutting the door. He starts to say something else, but there’s a loud snort from the corner of the room that has him snapping his mouth shut.

Stiles is folded up in the only available seat, cushion on his lap and a scowl on his face. There’s a large, egg-sized lump on his head. “ _Sir_ ,” he says, rolling his eyes. “He calls you _sir_.”

John sighs. “I need a favour.”

Derek looks warily from Stilinski to Stilinski, and then asks, “What kind of favour?”

“I’m sure you can guess.” John rubs his temples. “My idiotic son managed to injure himself at his apprenticeship today, and now –”

“Hey,” Stiles interjects, snappish. “I wasn’t being an idiot; I was being helpful, there’s a difference. It’s not my fault that the shelf wasn’t nailed to the wall properly. He’s a Wizard, you’d think he’d have spells in place for this kind of shit. Wards or something, I don’t know.”

“Your shift’s almost over, isn’t it?” John asks, completely ignoring his son. Derek’s mouth twitches – he can see where this is going, and he doesn’t completely mind. He’s still got an hour left before his shift really ends, but he can see the slightly desperate glint in John’s eye that warns him not to bring up this little fact.

“Almost, sir,” Derek agrees. “I can take him.”

“I’m not a dog,” Stiles says loudly. “And if I were a dog, I’d be seriously disappointed with the amount of affection you’re showing me. You’re supposed to treat dogs with love and companionship, you know.”

“Thank you,” John says gratefully, nodding at Derek. “I would have asked somebody else, but I know the two of you live in the same building. Lord knows Stiles doesn’t shut up about you sometimes.”

Stiles laughs slightly hysterically, eyes wide as he shoots up in his seat. Derek is so busy blinking in astonishment that he almost doesn’t catch John’s next sentence.

“Either you take him, or you’ll have to arrest your own boss for the brutal murder of his only son.”

“I am not that bad,” Stiles grumbles, but he’s already clambering out of his seat, cheeks flushed red as he avoids Derek’s gaze. “Anyway, I’d just fry your ass with a spell before you could get your gun out.”

“Who said anything about a gun?” John teases, lips twitching as he rounds the desk. “I’d just wait for you to attempt that spell and watch it backfire.”

Derek hides a grin as Stiles squawks and strides from the room – although not before John can pull him in and ruffle his hair, murmuring something in Stiles’ ear – leaving Derek to follow him out with an awkward wave at the Sheriff, whose relief is palpable. Derek knows it’s not for lack of love – Stiles is the Sheriff’s whole world, it’s easy to see. It’s just that Stiles is also a complete ass with the attention span of a gnat and a love for poking his nose into everything.

Derek slings his jacket over his shoulder and shuts off his computer. When he reaches his car, Stiles is already in the passenger seat, door open and feet splayed as he watches a bird land on a car opposite him.

“How did you get my keys?” Derek sighs, shaking his head. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

Stiles smirks and holds up something that looks like Derek’s keys. “I used _Copy_. Yours are still in your pocket. I swiped them this morning, when you were getting coffee.”

Derek rolls his eyes and stops in front of Stiles. He reaches forward and snatches the fake keys out of Stiles’ hands, who gives them up without a fight, grinning.

“You know I can just make a new set,” Stiles says.

Derek flicks him on the ear. “Don’t steal from police officers. No wonder your Dad wanted you out of his hair.”

“I did steal his croissant,” Stiles admits, without an ounce of shame. “Purely for health reasons, of course. He’s gotta watch his heart, he’s not getting any younger. Where are you taking me?”  

“To Elle’s Diner, firstly,” Derek says. He kicks at Stiles ankles and then rounds the car, popping open the drivers’ door. Stiles grumbles, but grudgingly folds himself into the front seat, cursing as he fiddles with the seat adjuster.

“The fuck,” Stiles mutters, one hand braced against the dashboard as he roots around near his feet, looking for the lever. “What kind of leprechaun sat in here last? I can barely get one knee in here.”

“The leprechaun would be my younger sister,” Derek says pleasantly, as he pulls out of the car park with a crunch of gravel. He can _hear_ Stiles wince. “Put your seatbelt on. Your brain cells have been through enough for today. I don’t want the last three splattered all over my windscreen.”

“Tell your sister that she’s freakishly fun-sized,” Stiles mumbles, and then makes a noise of satisfaction as the seat finally bends to his will. “Did you see that video of the woman in the car crash? She got thrown like, twenty metres, all because she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. It was kind of hilarious.”

Derek shoots him a look out of the corner of his eye. “Forgive me if l fail to see the humour.”

“She _cartwheeled_ through the air,” Stiles says emphatically, hands spinning.

They stop at Elle’s and Derek gets the usual order, plus some curly fries and a milkshake for Stiles, who praises all kind of Gods, _loudly_ , when Derek passes him the paper bag.

“You know you don’t have to keep an eye on me,” Stiles says through a mouthful of food. Derek primly flicks a crumb off of his jeans and shoots Stiles a disdainful look. “Sorry,” Stiles says, although he doesn’t stop talking with his mouth full. “Anyway, I was saying, you can just drop me home if you want. I’m not stupid, I know your shift wasn’t ending.”

Derek makes a left turn, heading towards the Preserve.

“Seriously,” Stiles grumbles, when Derek doesn’t reply. He slurps his milkshake obnoxiously. “I’m twenty, not twelve. And yeah, I get it, can’t even pick something off of a shelf without obtaining some kind of injury, not really a selling point. Not like the _rest_ of me is.” He gestures blithely to his body, and Derek’s eyes can’t help but follow the movement, head to toe.

Derek clears his throat and forces his gaze back to the road – what is _wrong_ with him – and then says lightly, “That wasn’t actually my point. I meant, you’re going to be alone if I drop you off at home, so I should probably keep you with me until your Dad’s finished work.”

Stiles snaps his head up to look at him, milkshake forgotten, eyes narrow. “I am an adult, you know. I can look after myself.”

There’s a slightly tense silence wherein Derek is lost for words and Stiles glares at the window, back ramrod straight.

“I never said that you couldn’t,” Derek says, carefully calmly. There was a time when Derek would have gotten pissed off and snapped back at him, maybe even floored it to the flats in a fit of anger and shoved him out of the car with nothing but a glare, but those days are far behind Derek. He has a handle on his anger now, so much so that it’s practically non-existent. It used to be his anchor, but now he barely thinks about the people who had once hurt him. He has other things to keep him grounded – things like family and friends, and his job.

“Yeah, right,” Stiles says sarcastically. “I know everybody thinks I’m shit at magic, just because I’ve messed up a few spells. And, _yes_ , I get hurt a lot, but magic is _serious business_ , okay? Like there was that time that I had to go out to that old Church on the edge of this shitty town and dig up a whole load of poisonous plants for a potion. Really, I was _expecting_ to get poisoned, so it’s hardly like I totally messed up and everyone was mad. I mean, okay, everyone _was_ mad, but that’s beside the point. If you don’t want to poison a guy, don’t send him to fetch poisonous plants with the wrong kind of gloves! On a blue moon, too!”

Derek lets Stiles ramble loudly about how nobody respects his “mad skills” and how his teacher is an ass that barely lets Stiles hold a glass vial because he thinks Stiles is going to break it – _that’s only happened seven times, it’s not like it’s part of my routine or anything, I don’t do it on purpose_ – until he turns into the long dirt path that leads up to the Hale House. He can tell the moment that Stiles realises where they are, because he shuts up mid-sentence and yelps strangely, practically gluing his face to the window in order to see where they’re going.

Derek rolls his eyes and carefully eases the car up the driveway.

“Are you taking me into the woods so that nobody can hear me scream?”

Derek almost slams his foot down on the wrong pedal. He makes an aborted, shocked noise and screeches to a halt about ten metres away from the Hale House, a splutter lodged in his throat before he realises that Stiles meant screaming in a very different sense to the kind that his brain clung to. He shakes off the images flittering through his mind and turns to his passenger.

Stiles is gripping the dashboard, a look of terror pasted across his face. “What the _fuck_ was _that_? A foot seizure?”

Derek clears his throat. “We’re here.”

Stiles continues to look at him like Derek’s just gone off the deep end. “You don’t say?”

The Hale House is a beautiful piece of architecture, designed and built by Derek’s father, with the help of contracted builders, and Stiles gapes in the doorway, eyes flickering over every minute detail. He does that thing, where he whistles through his teeth, and Derek shakes his head and relieves him of several take-away bags.

“Cora’s probably out, but everyone else should be in,” Derek says. “And they don’t hate Witches, before you ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Stiles huffs. Then his eyebrows draw together and he stops Derek with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, I should probably apologise.”

“Probably,” Derek agrees, mouth twitching into a teasing smile.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Asshole. Anyway, I’m sorry about the car. Well, not the car itself, but me _in_ the car, yelling and stuff. Sorry for the yelling. In the car. I know you were only looking out for me.”

“And I’ve only known you for a little while,” Derek points out. “So, I imagine that everyone who gets pissed when you hurt yourself is looking out for you too. And I also imagine that they’ve been doing so for a long, long time. Not because you’re not capable, but because they care.”

He feels a bit stupid saying the words, but Stiles seems to appreciate them.

Stiles ducks his head and scuffs his shoe along the floor. “Thanks, man,” he mutters. “You might be right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Derek says airily, shoving the front door open. He hears Stiles scoff behind him, and then there’s a loud screech as several toddlers sprint down the large staircase, making a beeline for Derek and his bag full of food.

“Mine,” shouts Violet, Laura’s oldest daughter. She pushes her little brother aside, but Tommy makes a quick come-back and attaches himself to Derek’s leg, growling.

“Kitchen,” Derek says firmly, although he can feel his heart melt at the sight of them. “Both of you, now.”

Violet turns her nose up. “Did you buy my apple turnover?”

“It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Of course I bought it,” Derek says. “But if you push your brother again, I’ll let Stiles eat it. Really slowly. In front of you.”

They both peer around Derek’s legs, to where Stiles is standing in the doorway. He catches their eye and waves awkwardly. Tommy stares at him, wide-eyed.

“Would you eat our desserts?”

“Never,” Stiles promises solemnly. “I might eat Derek’s though.”

Violet snickers and Tommy breathes out an audible sigh of relief. Derek glares at Stiles over his shoulder and gets a cheeky grin in return.

“Kitchen, _now_ ,” Derek says. He holds the bags aloft and strides down the hall, heading for the sounds of Talia’s favourite radio station. He hears Stiles mumble something and then follow him uncertainly.

The kitchen is brightly lit by the sun. Laura is at the oven, peering at a pot on the stove with a suspicious expression. Derek stops in the doorway, mouth dropping open in horror, and Stiles runs into him with a yelp.

“You’re letting Laura cook?” Derek demands. Talia wipes her hands on a dishcloth and turns to face them with a wry smile.

“It’s not the end of the world, dear,” Talia admonishes him, and then her hands go to her hips. “And who’s this? Honestly, Derek, you didn’t mention that you were bringing a guest. I would have whipped something up.”

“I’m whipping something up,” Laura protests.

“He’s not a guest. This is Stiles, Stiles Stilinski,” Derek says absently, placing the bags down on the island counter. “ _Of course_ it’s the end of the world. Don’t you remember Dad’s thirtieth? The birthday cake incident?” 

Laura casually flips him off over her shoulder.

“No vulgar gestures in my kitchen,” Talia says firmly. She breezes towards Derek, kisses him on the cheek and then wraps Stiles in a warm hug. Stiles makes a surprised noise against Talia’s jumper, and then extracts himself carefully, cheeks red. Talia leans back and examines him critically before patting his shoulder.

“Lovely to meet you, Mr Stilinski,” Talia says. “Did Derek buy you something to eat? We have a standing appointment every Thursday, you see, to slum it with diner food. Not that there’s anything wrong with diner food, of course. Elle makes delicious apple pancakes.”  

“He was a total gentleman,” Stiles says, a sly little smile taking over his face. “Bought me a milkshake and everything.”

“Only to shut you up,” Derek snorts, and then goes to examine the simmering mess on the stove. After a few moments of silence and careful observation, Derek still can’t tell what it’s supposed to be. Laura glowers at him, daring him to say something.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” Derek asks.

Laura rolls her eyes. “Yes, Derek, it’s supposed to look like that. It’s stew.”

“Are you _sure_?”

Laura opens her mouth to swear at him just as Violet and Tommy sprint into the kitchen, skidding across the tiles in a jumble of laughter and shouting.

“Inside voices,” Laura orders them, brushing a hand over Tommy’s head as he skates past her. Tommy comes to a stop near the stove and stands on tip-toes, trying to peer into the pot.

“What’s for dinner?” he lisps.

“Food poisoning,” Derek says solemnly. Laura brandishes a wooden spoon at him, and Derek ducks, makes a tactical retreat, snagging Stiles’ arm on the way out and avoiding his mother’s exasperated glare.

“C’mon,” Derek says to Stiles, who just looks more and more bewildered by the second. “You’ll like this.”

The Hale library takes up half of the third floor. It’s a beautiful room, all dark wood and deep red paint. There are several overstuffed armchairs dotted around and a real heart along the far wall. And, of course, it’s brimming with books of all shapes, sizes, genres and topics.

Stiles lets out another low whistle, spinning so that he can see every inch of the room. Derek watches him wander along the shelves, making small noises of surprise and appreciation and excitement as he spots title after title, running his long fingers over the leather spines.

“This is fantastic,” Stiles whispers. He eases a book from its’ shelf and stares at it, then puts it back and repeats the process five more times, before finally settling on a book about werewolves.

“Dad used to read to me in here,” Derek says, folding his arms and leaning against the door. “He’s got all the classics over there, by the table. I liked Hansel and Gretel the best.”

Stiles looks up from the book. “Not Little Red Riding Hood?”

Derek rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “That was Laura’s favourite, when she was little. She liked the part where the wolf ate Red. I always liked the idea of a house made of candy, though.”

Stiles backs into an armchair and curls up there, but his gaze is on Derek, not the book. Part of Derek wants to join him, maybe pick a book of his own, but he doubts that Stiles wants his company.

“Secret sweet tooth?” Stiles teases. “Have you been to the sweet shop in town? Sugar Corner? They have the best selection, man. Scott and I used to ride our bikes down there every weekend and buy pretty much the whole stock with our pocket money. Flying saucers are to die for.”

Derek wrinkles his nose. “Candy letters are a _thousand_ times better than flying saucers.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open. “Dude, I hate to break it to you, but I think our friendship is over. You’ve gone from number three to number ten in three seconds flat, and I just don’t think there’s any coming back from that.”

“Can’t use the library if we aren’t friends,” Derek reminds him, and Stiles narrows his eyes.

“Touché.”

*

Stiles starts to spend most of his free time at the Hale House. He sits in the library and inhales books by the hour, writing notes on pieces of notepaper that end up crumpled near the wastepaper basket or shoved in the bottom of his bag. Stiles says he knows where everything is in his bag, that it’s a delicate ecosystem that only he understands, but Derek still buys him a folder when he drives through town, complete with little plastic dividers and wallets to keep it all tidy.

“Please,” he says, shoving the folder into Stiles’ arms and almost making him drop his laptop. “It physically hurts to watch you fold up paper. It’s the most aggressive form of origami that I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness.”

Stiles pulls a face, but accepts the folder.

“What’s all this for, anyway?”

“A guideline, of sorts,” Stiles says, munching on the biscuits that Talia brought him earlier. Derek leans over and steals the last one off the plate, grinning at Stiles’ dismayed expression.

“A guideline for what?”

“The supernatural, obviously,” Stiles says, grabbing a handful of notes and waving them at Derek. “Like, you get taught the basics in schools. Origins and cultures and different social structures and past conflicts, the history of it all, but there’s no real thing for, like, _dealing_ with it. Living with it. Like Scott, my best friend, he was born human, but now he’s a werewolf, and that’s kind of a big deal and a huge shock _and_ a pain in the _ass_ , because we don’t know enough about it all. The information isn’t out there, and if it is, it sure as hell isn’t accessible. He was on his own for weeks before we found a way to build a pack out of humans, rather than relying on traditional werewolf hierarchy, and even that wasn’t information that I got hold of easily.”

Derek sits down in the chair just opposite of Stiles, sinking into the soft leather, and frowns. “McCall was born human? What happened? Who bit him?”

“Yeah, as human as me. Well, even more actually, considering I have a spark. It happened about, what, three years ago? No, wait, it must have been four. Yeah, four years ago, he was bitten in the Preserve, at night.”

“What were you doing in the Preserve in the middle of the night?”

“Hey, I never said I was there!” Stiles spreads his hands, an innocent look in his eye. Derek arches an eyebrow and the whole look crumbles into a sheepish grimace. “Alright, so, maybe I _was_ there, and _maybe_ it was my idea, and so technically, it was kind of my fault? But I didn’t bite him, obviously. There was a rogue Alpha on the loose.”

“A rogue Alpha,” Derek repeats slowly, trying to think. Four years isn’t exactly a long time, but it would have been around the time that Derek went up to visit Laura in New York and decided to stay longer than he would have usually, finding himself an apartment and a place in the local PD. “I think I was in New York, but mum never mentioned a rogue Alpha.”

“We didn’t want to worry you or your sister,” Talia says, bustling through the doorway with a towel slung over her shoulder and a plate of fresh biscuits in hand. “We had everything under control, though, and the Alpha was taken care of.”

“Woah,” Stiles says, eyes widening. “Huh. ‘Taken care of’. You sound totally badass, Mrs Hale, just so you know. Like one of those bad guys in the old black and white movies, with the shades and the tinted windows.” He draws a line across his own throat, and Talia chuckles. She whips the old plate away and places the fresh biscuits on the table.

“Thank you Stiles, you’re very kind. Here, I made a fresh batch but I don’t want them sitting around the kitchen or I’ll end up eating the lot.”

Stiles mumbles his gratitude, a biscuit already shoved in his mouth. Derek grimaces as crumbs trickle down Stiles’ chin, waits for his mum to leave before he leans over and steals another one.

“Didn’t my parents talk to Scott?”

Stiles shakes his head. “We managed to keep it a secret for a while. There’s a huge process for Classification of New Species, and it’s not exactly cheap, is it? We didn’t have the money, but then Scott’s mum and my dad figured it out and made him go and get registered, even though it damn near killed them, financially.” Stiles scowls down at his notes. “The news spread pretty quickly after that, and we managed to keep the rumours of how it happened to the minimum. If your parents ever made the connection, they didn’t say anything.”

Derek files that away and thinks about it for a few days, and then he sits at the counter at the kitchen in the morning of his day off, rolling an apple beneath his palm as he watches his father cook, and tries to build up the nerve to ask him.

It’s not that Derek’s dad is intimidating. Of all the Hale’s, Andrew is the least terrifying. He’s a quiet, studious man who splits his time between teaching a small class of gifted kids at the local college, doting on his grandchildren, and pottering around his garden, occasionally growling at snails for chewing his plants.

But he also has an uncanny ability to read Derek like a book, to unearth secrets that Derek didn’t even know he had, so talking to him is always like navigating a very intellectual minefield.

“Something wrong, son?”

“Scott McCall,” Derek says. “He’s Stiles’ best friend.”

Andrew makes an amused sound. “Stiles, hmm? He seems like a nice young man.”

Derek snorts. “You pronounced ‘pain in the ass’ wrong.”

Andrew turns around, placing the spatula down on the counter with odd deliberation. “You’ve been spending a lot of time together. Your mother likes him, so that’s one wall down.”

Derek’s not entirely sure where his dad’s going with that, so he just hums and bites the apple. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I was just wondering if you knew Scott McCall?”

“I’ve seen him at the vets,” Andrew says. “He works for Deaton. He seems like a good apple.”

“He’s a werewolf,” Derek says.

Andrew straightens up, frowning. “Yes, we heard a similar rumour. Everything’s a little tangled in that area though, and it’s pretty hard to get answers out of the Sheriff without snooping.”

“He was bitten in the Preserve, four years ago, by a rogue Alpha.”

Andrew grows pale.

“You didn’t know?”

“No, we didn’t know,” Andrew says. “We would have done our best to invite him into our pack if we had known. I simply thought they were rumours. Is he on the Classification List? How has he survived on his own all these years?”

“He’s on the list, and from what Stiles has told me, he already has a pack,” Derek says. “Not a pack of wolves though. A pack of humans and other creatures. I think, from what Stiles has let slip, that there’s a banshee and a kanima in there too.”

Andrew hums thoughtfully. “They must be strong, to have survived this long. Traditionally, packs are made up of werewolves, as you know, but there are cases of omega’s existing on their own, or with their families as their makeshift pack, although I’ve never heard of a banshee or a kanima joining any packs. They usually keep to themselves and their own community. Not to mention that there aren’t many of them to begin with.”

“You really didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t,” Andrew says, and then he nods decisively. “Derek, invite them over to dinner one night this week. I’ll let your mother know that we’ll be expecting company. It’s a massive oversight on our part, to have overlooked a young werewolf, and undoubtedly there are still things they will need to know. If the way Stiles has devoured that library of ours is anything to go by, then I think we can safely say that they’re hungry for knowledge.”

“And it’s our job to help those who need it,” Derek adds. “That’s what mom always says.”

Andrew smiles gently.

 

**Author's Note:**

> How was that? I sincerely hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a comment and let me know what you thought, I'd love to hear from you. The next update has yet to be finished so it might take a little while, please be patient. And thank you so much for reading, I really appreciate it! Come find me @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr if you want to chat.


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